


sweetest perfection

by theplatonicnonyeah



Series: The World We Live In and Life In General [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Hallucinations, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is set before Sherlock became Consulting Detective par excellence. It tries to deal with his abusive relationship to drugs and why he needed them.</p><p>In collaboration with belovedmuerto I am writing a collection of Sherlock fanfiction using songs by British group Depeche Mode as inspiration. This one takes its starting point from the song Sweetest Perfection off the Violator album. I am planning a comforting companion piece to this, inspired by the song Clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweetest perfection

He needed to die.

It wasn’t so much a flickering light at the end of a tunnel as a roaring wave in his ears.

He needed silence -  
and whiteness -  
and nothing -

THERE NEEDED TO BE NOTHING, no noise, no colour, no people, no dogs or houses, streets or cars, no windows or curtains, corridors or carpets, trees or grass and pairs - why do they always have to come in pairs!? - symmetry, symmetry, symmetry!

The boy on the corner is smoking, there’s a thread coming loose on his trouser hem, red contrasting against the bright, bright cotton sunflower yellow, the colour of that woman’s shoes is the same as her bag, but a shade lighter than the awning over that shop window - skirts on sale, 30% off - an aeroplane coming down for landing, a bus stopping at the red light, rhythm, rhythm, people moving in rhythm, criss-crossing the street, dancing, a coin balancing on the drain grid, chewing gums creating dark grey patterns, a lost toy hangs dirty in the fork of a tree, red car, newly washed, still warm engine bonnet, don’t need to touch, the heat radiates from it, keep walking, one foot in front of the other, 1-2-3-4, or try a waltz, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, green headphones on a girl with pink hair, her stockings are ripped, but it’s on purpose, it’s a carefully planned outfit meant to impress her friends, who are waiting by the tube station - planned interruptions, take alternative route - one, two, three, what are the first five decimals of pi?, there’s an even number of papers in the Big Issue seller’s pile on the ground beside him, his toes peak out through his left trainer, old model, last year, probably stolen off someone, very long nails, he has scabies, red blotches on his throat - one, two, three - how many breaths til the next corner?, a lollipop wrapper, cigarette stubs, another coin, not the same value, real estate office, young couple reading the ads, he’s cheating on her, she is pregnant, there is a system to the traffic lights, the cars to the left cannot make a right turn until the cars across the road get a red light, someone runs across, stupid girl, cars screech, honking, too much noise, too many people, turn around, turn around, take a back street, full of garbage, rotten food, not hungry, never hungry again, drooping salad leaves, brown at the edges, music, thumping bass beat, more people at the other end, cut through the maelstrom, walk slowly without touching anyone, invisible, there’s a man on the other side, walk towards him, walk towards him -

\- it’s a mirror.

Sherlock stares into his own reflection.

The edges blur and white, white, white closes in on him.

Everything fades away.

 

Finally nothing. He closes his eyes and exhales.

A woman is leaning over him, speaking softly in a language that makes no sense despite being his own. Aleatory deconstruction. _Not am hurting I. Fine is everything. Smiling look I am._ Comma. There is an errant comma! He looks at the woman searching for a sign that she knows where the comma should go, but she is a howling beast with a mouth of teeth and blood -

\- there is blood.  
Everywhere.

\---*---

 

Beep.

Beep.

No, it goes: beep-beep, pause, beep-beep, pause.  
The sound of the machine that registers his heartbeats. He listens to it for a long time before opening his eyes. When he finally does there is a blissful stillness in his brain as he takes in the room where he is laying. The walls are a pale blue colour. There is a window with the blinds drawn, sunlight trickling through; it could be morning. White sheets have been neatly tucked in around the corners of the bed, covering his bruised body.

He knows it is bruised, because the memory comes flooding back to him now. Cuts and scars, self-inflicted or accidental, mark their territory on his skin. All proof of his insistent search for the sweetest relief, a finely honed beauty of silence in his brain. He can still feel the taste - metallic - in his mouth and then the rush through his veins.

He wants it again; because he knows the silence won’t last. It’s already slipping away. As soon as someone notices he is awake (again! why is he awake at all?), all the noise and colour will come back in full force, invading his every cell.

He wants the sweet perfection of absolute silence.

He needs to die.

**Author's Note:**

> The sweetest perfection // To call my own//The slightest correction//Couldn't finely hone//The sweetest infection//Of body and mind//Sweetest injection//Of any kind


End file.
